Page 34 of Overdrive (Speed Demons #1)

Miami was one of my favorite cities. Iconic nightlife, humidity that made it feel like a vacation,A-listersand exclusive clubs.

But this year, I couldn't be bothered by any of it.

I was spiraling. Scrolling through Instagram, I stumbled across an edit ofAurélie'spost-race celebration inJeddah, where she'd beaten me. She was radiant, her smile brighter than the floodlights that lit up the circuit.

And then there was the one where she was tugging the top half of her fire suit into place, her tanned, flat stomach visible just above the waistband.

I nearly had heart failure.

Yeah, I'd seen her bikini pictures and her revealing outfits in previous Instagram posts—because of course I had—but never in her race suit like this.

The tight, sleeveless fire-resistant top hugging every inch of her body like it had been fucking painted on, her fingers gripping the waistband, pulling it up without a second thought, completely oblivious to the way millions of people were watching.

Completely oblivious to me.

Then her head tipped back as she took a deep breath, making the whole thing way too fucking erotic. What would she look like stripped completely down, this same look on her face as I fucked her until she couldn't walk straight the next day?

Heat bloomed under my skin, my fingers digging into my thigh like I could physically force the thoughts out of my skull.

I had to stop. I had to fucking stop.

Instead, my thumbs were already moving before logic could catch up.

You were so good in Jeddah.

As soon as I pressed send, I regretted it. It sounded an awful lot like praise. And it immediately made my already-hard dick jump. Did she like to be praised?

The three dots appeared almost instantly.

Aurélie

I had to be.

Keep that up, and you’ll be on the podium again in no time.

Her reply came slower this time, but it was worth the wait.

Aurélie

Don’t worry. I’ll make sure to save a spot for you.

On my face would be better.

Christ. I needed help.

Fans lined the barricades, their cheers echoing over the palm-lined streets as drivers and team personnel navigated the buzzing paddock.

But none of that was on my mind .

I should've been thinking about setups. Tire degradation.DRSstrategy. Not her mouth.

Instead, I was in the paddock, wearing sunglasses that did absolutely fuck-all to hide the fact that my eyes found her first. Like some kind of gravitational pull.

It annoyed me—because I couldn't fucking shake it. My season was well on its way to being fucked with how distracted by this… thing between us burning hotter with every passing race.

WatchingAuréliesnatchP4while I limped my overheating car intoP5inJeddahhad been humbling, sure. But it wasn't the loss that lingered—that was part of the sport—it was her .

I'd been inF1long enough to know when a rivalry was being engineered. The media, the fans, they loved a good spectacle.

But this? This wasn't fake. This wasn't scripted or exaggerated for the cameras. It was personal, and it was ruining me.

“Fraser!” Marco's voice snapped through the noise, yanking me back like a pit limiter. “Tessa's got a surprise for you, mate.”

I groaned, already sensing where this was going. “Let me guess—something to do withDubois?”

“Bingo. Joint media event. You andAurélie, taking out some vintageF1cars for the fans, followed by an interview and some social media stuff. They're leaning hard into the ‘rivalry.'” Marco looked so goddamn smug as he put a little extra swagger in his step. I wanted to throttle him for it.

“Fuck,” I muttered, shaking my head. “And I don't have a choice?”

“Nope,” Marco said, clapping me on the back. “But look on the bright side. At least she's easy on the eyes.”

I flipped him off, but he just laughed, walking off toward the Vanguard garage.

Back in my suite later that night, I knew I was being a complete idiot.

I should have put my phone down. Gone to sleep.

Instead, I was back on Instagram like the masochist I was.

It didn't take long to find what I was looking for.

Another edit. I knew I was about to spiral the second the sultry pop track kicked in.

Clips of her flashed across the screen—her car darting past mine, her victorious grin, and a slo-mo shot of her stalking the paddock in that goddamn fitted polo and tennis skirt that barely covered the tops of her thighs.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK .

The caption? Rivalry or foreplay? Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

My whole body locked up. I should've kept scrolling—I knew better than to do this.

But her smirk flashed across the screen again, her hair sticking to her temples, her fire suit tied around her waist. Her stomach flexed as she pulled it up with one hand, the other adjusting the waistband. It was so quick—blink and you'd miss it.

I didn't miss a single fucking second.

My blood burned. My skin was too tight. My cock was already hard—so fucking hard I couldn't think straight.

I watched it again. And then again.

She walked past the camera like she didn't know she owned the whole fucking world. Like she didn't know she wasdestroying me.

I shifted in my seat, groaning under my breath. Then I did it.

I shoved my joggers down andfistedmy cock without pretense. Hissed through my teeth, grip tightening at the base.

“Fuck,” I muttered, my voice wrecked, my palm sliding up the length, already slick withpre-cumat the tip.

My other hand held the phone steady, thumb dragging the video back to the beginning. That little movement—her pulling the suit up, the brief flex of her abs, the glint of sweat on her skin— that was what did it. That and that fucking skirt brushing her thighs. It cracked me wide open.

It may as well have been porn for what it was doing to me.

I stroked faster, jaw clenched, every muscle tense.

She wasn't even doing anything. Wasn't even trying.

And I was already about to fucking come.

I imagined her in front of me, bare, biting her lip, daring me to lose control.

I imagined her knees spread wide on my hotel bed, her voice low and breathy, golden hair in wild, post-race waves as she said my name—mocking me, tempting me, daring me.

“Tell me you're close,” I imagined her whispering, her voice in my fucking skull. “Tell me how bad you need to come,Callum. ”

My hips jerked off the couch, cock throbbing in my grip. I swiped my thumb over the tip, the Prince Albert piercing cold, and nearly lost it right then and there. My thighs trembled. My abs clenched. My balls drew tight.

Another scroll. Another fucking clip.

This one? A slow-motion shot of her stepping out of the car, pulling her helmet off. Her braids flicked over her shoulder. Her mouth parted. Her eyes locked on someone off-camera.

I pretended it was me.

I groaned, the sound ripped from somewhere deep, and stroked faster—rough, punishing, chasing the high Iknewwouldn't be enough. But I couldn't stop. I needed her, and this was the closest I could get.

My name. I wanted her to say my name. I wanted to wreck her.

My stomach coiled, fire shooting up my spine. My hand moved faster, my breath loud and filthy in the quiet hotel room.

And then I came. Hard. Violent. Spilling across my hand and stomach with a grunt I couldn't swallow back.

I slumped into the couch, panting. My arm dropped to the side, hand slick and spent. My heart was still hammering. My cock still twitched like it didn't get the memo. I was spent, wrecked—and still fucking unsatisfied. She had no idea what she'd done to me.

She was still in my head. Still everywhere.

Tessa Devereaux (PR)

Be at the vintage car display at 2 PM tomorrow. Don’t be late.

The text flashed across the top of my screen, interrupting my post-orgasm spiral of thoughts.

Great. Just what I needed.

Aurélie looked incredible. There was no other way to put it.

HerLuminispolo was tucked intohigh-waistedtrousers, her hair pulled into a sleek ponytail. The smile she gave the fans was genuine, but when she looked at me, it cooled into something more intense.

“Ready to lose again?” she teased after we changed into race suits, standing by our respective cars. If this was a loss, I wanted to lose every time. Especially if she used that mouth for other things.

I smirked, adjusting my helmet as I stared her down, my brain trying to play it cool when really I was short-circuiting, imagining her in that tennis skirt.

Lifting up her shirt to reveal her stomach.

Her head tipped back in relief, in pleasure.

How unsatisfied I'd been after jerking off to those clips.

Her eyes narrowed, catching the delay.

“Not a chance, love,” I said.

It was a mistake. A reflex. An instinct.

We both froze, but she didn't respond as we both climbed into the cars. I groaned internally, feeling like I was fucking losing my mind. And it wasall her fault. I adjusted myself subtly in the cramped cockpit. Still half hard. Still fucking aching. Still hers, even if she didn't know it.

The vintage cars were a nightmare to handle, but Aurélie made it look easy. She was toying with me, throwing bold moves left and right, her helmet barely hiding the thrill that was written all over her face.

She was eating this shit up.

And I was losing grip—on the wheel, on my self-control. I forced my focus back onto the track. But my body had other plans?—

The way she shifted in the car. The way her hands gripped the wheel. The pure, reckless confidence in the way she overtook me, like she already knew she could.

Fuck.

My grip on the wheel was vise-tight. My focus absolutely shattered. She was everywhere—between my legs, in my throat, under my skin. The fantasies were encroaching on my daily life, and it was a dangerous fucking problem.

We were side by side in the final corner, neither of us willing to lift, and for a second—just a split second—she glanced over at me.

Not at my car .

At me.

Something about it sent lightning straight through my bloodstream. Like she felt me unraveling and wanted to see how far I'd fall.

I barely edged her out at the line, and as soon as I flipped my visor up, I braced myself for whatever the fuck was about to happen next.

I had no fucking idea what I was going to do when we climbed out of these cars.

But I knew one thing with bone-deep certainty.

This wasn't over. Not even fucking close.

I'd make her suffer right along with me.